Great! Mighty!

Sight of Valhalla

"She's pregnant?"

His other brothers were so full of shit. That evening, they had agreed to speak about this in private. Before mother would know that she was with child as within months, it would be unavoidable. He knew as well as the others did that the moans filtering of Hvitserk's space were those of sex. Ivar held his hand on his golden cup, looking to Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd. They all wore tense faces.

Sigurd as disgruntled as ever and Ubbe? His eyebrows were knit tightly together as he stares off to the glimmer of the plates. They shine like the beating son on a hot day. For Ivar, he feels as if his skin is searing off the bone.

"I didn't know." Ubbe throws a side eyed look to his mother.

"Where is she?" Sigurd's snake entwined eyes throw a heavy look to Hvitserk. Whose hands are tight on his cup. A slave should be by her master always. But Ivar believed Hvitserk was giving you space to think.

"She's sick." Hvitserk answers in a low, even tone.

However to Ivar– that is some news. "Sick?" His hands hover about his mouth for some time. Hvitserk isn't looking to Ivar. In fact, he's not saying much of anything. He's just staring like Ubbe. Neither say a word, and suddenly, Ivar feels offput.

I didn't know. He finds it hard to believe that Hvitserk's favourite brother had not known about the pregnancy. After all, Sigurd had mocked him with the knowledge that Hvitserk brought Ubbe to your bed. That baby could have just as well been Ubbe's!

"You're sure?" Ubbe says to Hvitserk. He nods slowly then looks to him with a small disproportionately anguished answer. The words sound stale like the itch of old straw on his skin.

"We were."

Were. Ivar snaps his head to Hvitserk. "What do you mean were?"

"She did not want to keep it. She a tea of pennyroyal this evening." Hvitserk lifts his cup to his lips, glaring down the murky liquid. "She was afraid of mother."

Ivar's ears ring. A far beating echo like sacrificial drums, the howl off axe against shield or a handheld flute. He's not sure. He only remembers the howl from Ubbe. Stop Ivar! There's a lot of pain in his hand, and he realizes its him. Ivar had lurched himself over the table to Hvitserk, the war pick commissioned from the blacksmith tight in his bound hands. Food sloshed around the table, smearing against his brown tunic with the dark stain of his brother's blood. Hvitserk thrusts himself away from the side of the table, falling flatly onto the ground when Ivar's hand snapped to the axe on his belt. Sigurd lurches on top of Ivar, hands tight on Ivar's hand, holding him tight. His brother is more akin to a ball of raging muscle, looking to finish the job on Hvitserk.

"This has nothing to do with you!" Ivar slashes his head to the side to Sigurd. His older brother looks at him with lips pressed tight. Then– he looks to Hvitserk flatly on the ground. Ubbe slips his hands underneath Hvitserk's legs and pulls him into his loving arms, warm and safe like the father he never had. If Ragnar left one blessing behind, apparently it was Ubbe. Everyone loved Ubbe. Like everyone loved Hvitserk.

"GET ME A HEALER!" Ubbe's boots beat out of the Great Hall. With him– Ivar's kill. Sigurd cautiously slips off when he's sure that Ubbe is far enough, to get Hvitserk to safety. His chest beats harshly as he drops down from the table, dragging himself through the smear of red blood across the floor. Like the snakes that draw through Sigurd's eyes, Ivar used his massive arms to drag himself far away.

The empty cup still sat where you left it hours ago. Shortly after Ivar left, you made the tea and ingested it from the petals and leaves. Hvitserk came to find what you had done– no possible way to stop it. He knew that if you wanted this so much, it would happen.

Better dead than living a slave. For a daughter, you could think of nothing worse but being forced to lie with a man you did not love. Especially when the man you always wanted was there. Untouch... untouchable. A prince.

"(Y/N)."

You knew you were hallucinating now. His voice, your love's. It sounds low, unamused with the actions you had just taken. You squirm your useless limbs on the furs, feeling another wave of nausea coming on when you attempt to roll closer to the source of such a decadent voice. Hearing him curse– you idiot! You could have died! – was the closest you would come to him.

"The gods wouldn't care. I cannot get... into... valhalla." Your voice is low like the depression of your breathing. The searing burn ripping its way up your throat was nothing in comparison to the awful cramping that took ahold of your lower stomach. Maybe... maybe you made too much. The foreigner doesn't argue with the fact that the gods would not care.

"You think I sold you so you could die?"

There's firm, calloused hands against your cheeks. The rich iron of blood or metal wafts the room, teasing your nose with its metal like scent. Beyond the smell, you catch the undertones of grass and dirt. It smells like your sweaty ex-master.

"I don't care..." Your vision is spotty– you can make out that awful hairstyle your ex-master wears. But the world is shifting. It's shifting and waving so hard that you can't make anything else out.

"What if I care?"

"No one can love a slave." The dizziness takes ahold and you cough some slosh up the corner of your mouth, probably just liquid. His hands don't move when there's a loud creaking that has you hissing, ears ringing.

Does she need a healer? It sounds like prince Sigurd– the voyeur.

What do you think? Just get one!

"You don't care... you never have." Your breath is becoming harder and harder to catch. Everything is fuzzy and hot. But at the same time, cold. Your digits feel swollen and just so far, far away. Shakes snap ahold of your body and through the dark hole you slip into, you just barely hear him barking out.

"I do care for you!"

Then the darkness swallows you whole.